But It's Better If You Do
by luna me and the slithery-dee
Summary: It was irrefutable. Harry was going into a strip joint in order to save the world.
1. Now I'm of consenting age

**A/N: **Not much of a romance. Not much of a parody. Not much of anything. A burst of random inspiration, if you will. Plus, it will distract readers from my struggle with Newlyweds. Heh. So (try to) enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **Hey, if you try really hard, you can hear the sound of me not owning Harry Potter! (trust me it's a really lousy sound)

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"I won't, I won't, I won't," said Harry stubbornly for the umpteenth time, starting to sound like a child throwing a tantrum.

Hermione looked at him exasperatedly. "You have to, Harry."

"I won't," repeated Harry vehemently. "I wouldn't be caught dead in that place!"

They were outside of a small ramshackle stone building in Knockturn Alley, an array of bright colors flashing in the dusty, cracked windows and a few creaky steps leading up to a peeling green door. A wooden sign had been nailed above the entrance. _The Cat's Paw-burlesque parlor,_ said the smudged black ink. It was irrefutable. Harry was going into a strip joint in order to save the world. If the situation at hand wasn't so pressing Harry would have laughed.

He ran his fingers through his rumpled black hair tiredly. "It's two in the morning," he grumbled. "Who knows what kind of perverted freaks are in there?"

_"We _know," replied Hermione, ignoring the fact that it was a rhetorical question. "A crowd of Death Eaters went in and we followed them here. Did you know that one of the Death Eaters owns this place? I have a hunch that a Horcrux is concealed somewhere in there; they don't know it, obviously, but it must be something Voldemort is telling them to take care of. All you have to do is wheedle a bit of information from one of the employees there-"

"You mean a stripper," said Harry loudly.

Hermione frowned. "Quiet, someone could hear you. And calm down, Harry, it's not a big deal."

"Well, you're not the one who has to call for a lap dance!" exploded Harry. "Why can't Ron do it? Or you!" Harry, of course, knew the answer to this. Neither Ron nor Hermione was the Chosen One. Neither one of them had the weight of the world on his/her shoulders. Besides, Ron would turn scarlet at the sight of his mum's smalls. Imagine if he were to walk into a building armed to the teeth with scantily clad striptease artists. And as for Hermione-well, she hated masquerading as a lesbian. "I can't believe you're actually making me do this."

Hermione rubbed her forehead wearily. "We don't have a choice, Harry."

"Sorry, mate," whispered Ron. He was invisible to the naked eye, hidden underneath Harry's invisibility cloak nearby; he had been stationed as lookout.; Hermione would cover the rear of the building.

"Can't I just slip a bit of Veritaserum into somebody's drink?" asked Harry hopefully.

"Yes," said Hermione. "But a customer wouldn't know anything, of course, and since this…place is pretty shady, they might be expecting it. And the-_employees_ aren't allowed to drink anything during…work hours."

Harry snorted at Hermione's attempt to euphemize the conversation, then remembered the seriousness of the situation. "Hermione, I _can't," _said Harry, wildly grasping at straws. Legilimency! Oh, but he was terribly incompetent at it…his insides squirmed as he pictured the scene: some hag of a woman with blue eyeshadow and rouge caked on her face creeping up to him seductively…he would stammer and words would fall out of his mouth…she would climb on top of him and his legs would buckle…

"You have to do it, Harry," urged Hermione, interrupting this rather disturbing image. "And you're very lucky that _this_ Horcrux isn't in a dangerous location. I mean, a cabaret is a bit risky, but we've been through worse, much worse."

Harry recalled their last adventure, where they had managed to find and destroy one of Voldemort's Horcruxes-the Slytherin locket. He shuddered. They had been an inch near death that time. But right now he felt that he'd rather take the Death Eaters again rather than face the monstrosity of these circumstances. "I can't," he said again.

"Harry, listen to me," said Hermione, using the guilt trip trigger, "If you don't do this, people are going to die. More people are going to die, I mean," corrected Hermione. "You don't want that, do you? This war has to come to the end, and we have to win before it does. If not, the world will be plunged into darkness. You'll never forgive yourself. This is minuscule compared to what is at stake-peoples' lives and freedoms. In order to conquer Voldemort, you have to do this. Remember your promise to Mrs. Weasley…"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. The guilt trip trigger (Part One of How to Persuade Harry to Do Something) had worked. Hermione was good at that. How he hated her.

"You can do it," prodded Hermione, now enacting Part Two of How to Persuade Harry to Do Something (the pep talk), "Erase your fears and misgivings. This is nothing compared to what you've done in the past. You're brave, Harry, and an exceptional wizard. You can do it."

"Yeah," echoed Ron.

Harry swallowed. He'd had to coax information out of people before and was moderately skilled at doing so, but coaxing a female specimen paid to do scandalous acts specifically for the entertainment of the likes of him was not a skill he could assume. "Okay," he said finally. "Okay."

Hermione pushed him a little. He stumbled two steps forward. "Go on, then." Harry robotically went up the steps and stopped at the door. He felt decidedly nervous. "Are you sure they won't recognize me?" he asked, gingerly touching his forehead where his scar used to be. They had followed the lead immediately after having been given instructions at headquarters. There had been no time to waste; the other side would eventually find out that they had found out another Horcrux location and that would lead to serious problems. The Polyjuice Potion they had was out of stock, so Hermione had quickly covered Harry's scar with what she called "Muggle magic," a light dab of liquid foundation, much to Harry's discomfiture. She had also removed his glasses and tried convincing him to wear a wig, but Harry had adamantly refused; to think that the Order of the Phoenix could afford casualties of war and not a few decent-looking hairpieces. As Hermione had rummaged through the trunk containing shoddy disguises, there was only a huge black Afro and a shambolic bob. After failing to sway Harry to her point (Harry: 1; Hermione: 2093483048023), she had sighed, raised her hands up in defeat, briskly stated that it didn't matter, and to hurry up and get going, Ron, you shouldn't have drank all that butterbeer.

"It's fine," reassured Hermione. "I bet everyone in there is too intoxicated to notice you and besides, the only reason they would know you're Harry Potter is because of your scar and thanks to Cover Girl, you don't have one. And even if they did notice you, they'd be too incapacitated to do anything about it, so don't worry."

"Okay then." Harry, with a trembling hand, reached for the doorknob, bracing himself for the worse when Hermione's voice cut through the silence. "Wait!" She tossed an item to him; Harry fumbled it and held it up to examine it. It was a plain gold mask. "What's this for?"

"Just in case someone does recognize you," said Hermione with the air of one talking to a child. "Put it on and you'll fit right in. It is a burlesque parlor, after all. And good luck."

Easy for you to say, Harry almost said but decided against it; he didn't want her to do Part Three of How to Persuade Harry to Do Something, which usually ended in blackmail and/or violence. Instead he slipped on the mask, feeling rather stupid, summed up what courage he had, and was just about to open the door when Hermione suddenly hissed, "Harry! Do you remember the signals?"

Harry groaned. _"Yes." _There were different colored sparks to shoot up in the air with one's wand to convey messages to another associate, each meaning different things at different times. There were the standard ones, like red for danger, green for objective accomplished, blah blah blah. Then there were the complicated color combinations and difficult spark movement amalgamations Hermione had invented, which Harry couldn't really recall at the moment-it was Hermione's system, after all. But he figured he would only have to know the basics-hardly anyone used the I'm-wandless-and-surrounded-by-vicious-bloodthirsty-creatures-and-with-three-handicapped-people-please-help signal (which Harry vaguely remembered required a sort of funny 'S' movement of the wand). With a final curt wave, Harry wrenched the door open and slipped quietly inside before Hermione could utter another word.


	2. Praying for love in a lap dance

Harry blinked. The outside of the strip joint had looked shoddy; the inside was not much better, although certainly more lively. Everything looked eerie in the semi-darkness. Multi-colored lights winked at him from the ceiling. He looked around surreptitiously. The place was crowded with sleazy-looking wizards. No one had notice him come in; they were all too busy "socializing" with the exotic dancers, drinking their sorrows away, and watching the main feat on the stage, which happened to be an intricate pole dancing routine by twelve female specimens wearing slinky Harlequin undergarments. The music (a raunchy violin sonata being played on the tinny PA) was loud, drowning out the sound of raucous laughter, the whistles and cheesy pickup lines. 

The bouncer, who Harry swore could have had some troll blood in him, eyed him and smiled knowingly. Harry, sure that he had been caught, flinched. "Looking for love in all the wrong places?" leered the bouncer. Harry flushed and quickly headed to the bar, sidling along the tables in which girls donning elaborately decorated lingerie swung nimbly on poles, their heels kicking Galleons into the air which skidded on the floor and landed at the feet of men who picked them up and tossed them onto the tables again. There was one particular table he had a hard time squeezing past; the girl had dark tresses, wore a fox mask and frilly red panties, and was in a scruffy wizard's lap while the wizard, chuckling appreciatively with a goblet of fire whiskey in his hand, had not been inclined to move. Harry managed to reach the bar unharmed, although slightly unruffled. He sat on an stool and watched as an elderly man, presumably the bartender, polish glasses, realization dawning on his face. "So what can I do you for?" the man asked gruffly. He looked at Harry strangely as Harry was grinning at him. _So I don't have to entice a stripper after all_! Harry was thinking with relief. _All I have to do is ask the bartender a few questions. No problem._ "I'll have a butterbeer," he said promptly.

The bartender eyed him warily. "A Squib drink?"

Harry suddenly felt foolish. "Er, I mean…" he scanned the list of drinks they had to offer; he had no idea what any of them were, with the exception of fire whiskey, which he didn't care for at that particular moment. "Er, what would you recommend?"

"For you? A Castrated Thestral," the bartender said. And then he turned his back to Harry and busied himself with preparing the aforementioned alcoholic beverage.

As Harry waited for his drink, his eyes traveled over to the stage. He couldn't help but be impressed. They were spectacular, a flotilla of graceful swans. He hurriedly turned away, cheeks reddening, just as one of the performers had thrown her brassiere into the audience, where a long-haired whelp caught the undergarment with a smirk. Harry instead watched several bottles fly off the shelves they had rested upon, uncork themselves, tip over, and pour their contents into a single beaker with the bartender conducting the whole process with a lazy flick of the wand, the end result being a bubbling black liquid that Harry found unappealing. As he grudgingly accepted the drink with a reluctant thanks, a roar of cheering and applause suddenly rang in Harry's ears; Harry assumed the grand finale was over and risked a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm it. The dancers were now graciously accepting the tangible kindnesses that came their way-in other terms, money, and lots of it. Some were now chatting amiably with the customers, as if they had been working in the office all day and had decided to take a coffee break.

"That'll be three Galleons," said the bartender, tapping the counter for attention.

"Oh, what? Sure." Harry fished several coins out of his pockets and dropped them into the bartender's waiting palm. He took a small sip of his Castrated Thestral, gagged, and coughed; the drink was bittersweet and burned his throat. He hastily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, as casually as he could, "So…nice night."

"It's technically morning," replied the bartender.

Harry felt stupid. "Nice morning, then."

"I s'pose," said the bartender.

"So how long have you worked here?" asked Harry nonchalantly.

"Not very long," answered the bartender.

"Well, I was thinking about getting a job here," Harry invented. "Is there anything I should know about before I apply?"

The bartender considered this question for a second. "Well, you should know we don't sell butterbeer here. It's pretty much cheap plonk to us."

Harry's cheeks reddened again. "I was thinking something more serious."

"No drinks on the house," offered the bartender unhelpfully. "No drinking on the job. Only paying customers can use the bathrooms. And don't mess with the dancers."

"That's all?" asked Harry.

"S'all I can think of," said the bartender, turning towards another customer, a small, balding man wearing a fur cloak. Harry waited fifteen minutes for the balding man to order a Nicholas Flamel before he asked the bartender, "So you don't have any other extra responsibilities? Nothing in particular that you have to watch out for?"

The bartender looked at him irritably. "The cabinet," he said, jerking his head towards it. "Filled with antique wineglasses. Not allowed to use them, they're just for display."

"Oh," said Harry, disappointed. "Well, I'll pick up an application next time."

"If you ask me," advised the bartender, "those dancers would know stuff I wouldn't. I've only worked here for a week or so. Filling in for a nephew o' mine whose got dragon pox, he'll be back by tomorrow. Most o' 'em, the dancers that is, have been here for months, years. So why don't you go ask one of 'em?"

Harry was mortified. Back to square one, he thought miserably. "Ok, thanks." He slowly got off of his stool and walked numbly to an empty table, where he plunked himself down in defeat. His hands grew clammy and his mouth grew dry. His stomach was in knots. He glanced uneasily around; everyone else looked as if to be having a good time. The music grew livelier and seemed to mock him with each note. He found the exotic dancers with their animal-themed masks and their scanty clothing formidable and menacing all of a sudden and began sweating in his seat, wondering why him. No, Harry was definitely not in his element.

One particular dancer, sporting a flamingo headdress and sitting nearest him-two tables away and in the company of a smug-looking gentleman sipping his daiquiri-gave him a dazzling smile, revealing white, razor-sharp fangs. A vampire. Harry shuddered and quickly looked away, his heart thumping loudly. How, oh how did he get himself into these situations-?

_Come on, it's not that bad,_ said voice in the back of his head that sounded uncannily like Hermione. _You are surrounded by drunken, horny men and beautiful women. Nothing you can't handle. Get a grip. _Harry took a deep breath, steeling himself. He had to locate the Horcrux. To do that, he would need an informant. The informant would have to be an….exotic dancer. Okay. Now, to get information from an informant, he would have to manipulate/bribe/blackmail/beg and/or convince said informant. To do that, he would have to…

Call for a lap dance. He felt himself panicking; how would he go about doing that? Simply request for someone? Should he exuberantly announce it or jingle his coin pouch pointedly? Oof. That didn't sound right, like an implied euphemism. Get your mind out of the gutter, he upbraided himself. What's the point? We're stuck in one, replied another voice in his head.

He braced himself for the worse and with a trembling hand, was just about to unclip his bum bag from his belt (Hermione had insisted they wear the ridiculous things because they were practical and "sooo adorable") and call to attention an…

Exotic dancer was coming his way. She was small and slight with long, tousled blonde hair and wore a sequined purple mask with a matching elephant headdress and skimpy rhinestone-encrusted lingerie. She nodded towards him and got up on the table.

Harry sat, frozen, his eyes glued to her every move. She danced with a strange quietude and elegance this tawdry Mardi Gras hellhole did not possess. She was lithe in her movement and twirled serenely, the pole augmenting her beauty and poise. She was intimate, but not repugnantly so. Harry was entranced, and wondered vaguely whether this girl was at least part veela.

When she neared him, she would reach out her slender fingers and touch his hair, a part of his face, a hand, until without thinking Harry grasped those slender fingers and pulled her off the table. She straddled him and caressed his face lightly; Harry's mind was reeling. He forgotten why he was here, what he was supposed to do. The only thing that was on his mind was this masked beauty and how she aroused all sorts of feelings in him…

She leaned in, lips inches away from his. Harry closed the distance between them with a kiss. He had intended it to be a peck; a pressing of lips, but apparently this girl knew what she was doing, he thought, as her tongue worked its way into his mouth and collided with his. Harry's senses were screaming with pleasure; what a bloody fantastic kiss…sultry…passionate…so wrong yet so right…

And as she trailed soft, sensual kisses onto his neck to the side of his face to his ear, Harry heard a groan escape his lips. She paused here, near his ear, gripping Harry by the lapels, and whispered, "We need to talk."

Harry looked at this masked beauty straight in the eye for the first time and saw two pale orbs staring back at him. "L-Luna?" he spluttered.


	3. I wouldn't be caught dead in this place

She put a finger to his lips. "Let's go into one of the champagne rooms," she said, leaping nimbly off of Harry and walking briskly to the back of the club. Harry, left in a daze, followed her.

Luna lead him into a small room containing a sofa, a stripper pole, a liquor cabinet, and a tacky stuffed moose head mounted on the wall. Luna plopped onto the sofa and kicked off her sparkly stilettos. "It does get tiring wearing those things all day," she said, rubbing her feet. Harry sat down next to her, numb. His mind was reeling again. Luna had table danced for him. She had then proceeded to give the best kiss of his life. And now…his cheeks reddened as he was suddenly aware how long he had been staring at Luna's bosom.

Luna pulled off her mask and the headdress. "It's a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, see?" she said, showing him the headdress. Harry nodded mutely. Not ready for words quite yet.

Luna poured a bottle of champagne into two glasses from the liquor cabinet and offered a glass to Harry. He took it with another silent nod. Still not ready to speak.

Luna sipped hers daintily. "I didn't expect to see you here," she remarked. "But I suppose I should have, with you searching for Voldemort's Horcruxes."

Harry's head shot up. "How'd you know-?" He had, at the moment, mixed feelings-relief because Luna knew his true purpose for being in a place like this, that his intentions weren't of a horny bastard who couldn't get any; mortification, as he had been seduced by a bug-eyed but very attractive weirdo he knew from school; euphoria and giddiness, from snogging; and curiosity-why on earth was Luna's chosen profession a stripper, and how did she know so much?

Luna smiled. "It was only three months ago when I found out my mother did not die because of an experiment gone wrong. She died because she knew of the prophecy concerning Voldemort and you."

"But, you said you saw her-"

"I did," said Luna simply. "I saw her body fall to the ground and her eyes cloud over. I saw clouds of pungent green smoke and assumed that she had died because of an experimentation malfunction. The smoke must have been used so the perpetrators could make a clean getaway."

Harry stared at his hands. "But…the Horcruxes?"

"Funnily enough, my mother was studying them at the time," said Luna cheerfully. "She worked in the Department of Mysteries. She put two and two together and realized you could defeat Voldemort if you destroyed the Horcruxes. She had even began writing a thesis paper about it. She told me about them, indirectly. So then _I _put two and two together after reading her half-finished essay. Now here I am." She put down her glass of champagne and looked inquisitively at Harry. "So how many have you destroyed?"

"There's three down, and three to go," mumbled Harry, still staring at his hands. He didn't want to look at Luna. Too embarrassed. "Not to mention Voldemort himself."

"Well, you've gotten this far," Luna cheerily said. A silence fell between them, with Harry twiddling his thumbs and Luna staring dreamily off into space.

And Harry suddenly remembered that this was a strip joint, and he was in it. "LUNA!" he roared, jumping up and pointing an accusing finger at her. Luna barely bat an eyelash. "YOU…YOU…" Harry found that he didn't know where to begin. He had been amped up for a tirade and his mouth was failing him. His brain being on the blink, Harry unconsciously began staring at Luna again. He hadn't seen her in over a year and a half. She looked different than from what he remembered-less…bizarre? More…_damn sexy,_ said a voice in the back of his mind. "NO!" he said out loud.

"What did you say?" asked Luna, puzzled.

"Er, nothing," said Harry hastily. "I mean, WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THIS SKANK HOUSE? TAKING YOUR CLOTHES OFF FOR PERVERTED FREAKS AND…AND…GETTING ALL TOUCHY-FEELY WITH THEM…"

"Oh, Harry," said Luna earnestly. "I've been working undercover here to find a Horcrux. And besides, I've never gone starkers and you're the only one I've kissed while on the job."

"WELL YOU COULD HAVE APPLIED FOR BARTENDER, OR…OR CLEANING…OR MAINTENANCE, OR SOMETHING!" yelled Harry stubbornly, although he could not help but feel flattered. Hmm…Luna starkers…not too bad of an idea…oh, great. Now she had put all these fantasies in his head.

Luna shook her head. "Exotic dancers are in demand."

Harry smacked his forehead. "THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" he shouted angrily. "YOU SHOULDN'T DEGRADE YOURSELF LIKE THIS! YOU COULD'VE COME WITH US!"

"You wouldn't have let me," Luna pointed out calmly. "You would have assumed I would be more of a casualty rather than an asset if I had asked. I'm doing this for the greater good, Harry."

"WELL…" Harry had to admit she had a point-he hadn't even allowed Ginny to take part in his struggle to conquer the Dark Lord, but he was determined to keep on shouting. "DON'T, just DON'T. IT'S NOT RIGHT…" And then his shoulders slumped. He was tired from lack of sleep, tired of chasing and being chased, of having to face his so-called destiny. It was all just so hackneyed and inconvenient on his part. Harry grasped Luna's hands and looked at her squarely. "This ends here, then," he said. "Promise me you won't…" the word wouldn't come out. He tried again. "Promise me you won't…"

"Striptease?"

Harry winced. "Yes, that. Promise me you won't, after this."

"Okay Harry," said Luna solemnly. "I promise. Although it was quite fun twirling on that pole."

Harry smacked his forehead again. "LUNA!"

"Well, it was," said Luna, unperturbed. "And the money was quite good, although I really had no use for it. Mostly I sent it all to Daddy. I told him I was a freelance taxidermist who was working in Germany for a month or two."

"And he believed that?" asked Harry incredulously, now trying very hard to resist looking at Luna in her skimpy, rhinestone-encrusted lingerie. _Don't look, don't look-_

Too late.

"Well, I've always dreamed of being one when I was younger," said Luna, shrugging her shoulders. "That, or a porcupine necktie collector. I also considered being a wandering holy man-"

"Ok, ok." The last thing Harry wanted was for Luna to ramble on about her childhood dreams. "Er, can anyone hear us in here?" he asked.

"No, there's an Imperturbable Charm placed on all the champagne rooms for privacy," stated Luna matter-of-factly.

"So have you found anything out?" asked Harry, curious. He sat down beside her again.

"Yes," said Luna. "I've been working here for a month and a half, so I only have a hunch. I think that the Horcrux here might be in the dressing room."

"What is it?"

"I don't know," said Luna thoughtfully. "It could be an article of clothing. There are several items that are highly revered by my coworkers."

"Why would Voldemort want one of his Horcruxes concealed in a G-string?" asked Harry, blushing at the thought. And then it suddenly occurred to him, as the shock left his system: _And why'd you kiss me, if you knew who I was?_

"The mind works in wondrous ways," was Luna's reply.

"If by wondrous you mean freakish and bizarre," muttered Harry. "Okay, look. I need to somehow contact Hermione and Ron and tell them that you're here."

"Where are they?" asked Luna.

"Outside, standing guard."

"Why don't you go outside, tell them, and come back in?" suggested Luna.

"Oh." Harry felt stupid again. It seemed that he had come up with so many complex strategies and multifarious plans that he was applying it to the simplest of actions. "Right. Then you quit your job, and…"

"I can't, I have a contract. For a year," added Luna.

Harry smacked himself on the forehead again. This time, it left a mark. He yelped in pain; Luna giggled. "You signed a contract?"

"Well, it was required, and I thought it would take me around a year to find a Horcrux," said Luna, shrugging. "Then I was planning on contacting you , but I guess I won't have to now, would I?"

"I guess not. Ok, just…never mind that for now." Harry figured they could worry about Luna being a stripper later; there were more pressing things at hand. "You just stay here and…I'll tell Hermione and Ron the situation's changed."

Luna nodded serenely.

Harry stood up. On his way out, he spared Luna a backward glance. She was sitting quietly on the sofa, hands folded in her lap, her eyes glazing over. Harry shook his head. Funny how Luna could still be Luna in the most dire circumstances.

He closed the door behind him and looked around. The stripper in the fox mask was doing a seductive striptease onstage. He saw a group of Death Eaters huddled nearby, swilling whiskey and drunkenly professing their love to every dancer that passed them, their faces hidden under dark cloaks. Harry felt a mixture of disgust and anger at the sight of them. A jaunty piano intermezzo was playing and the bouncer stood by the door, unmoving and expressionless.

Harry hurried past the bouncer, who leered at him again, pulled open the door, and sought refuge outside, where he found the sudden silence calming. He breathed in the night air, for a moment forgetting what he had to do. "Why are you out here, Harry?" whispered a voice, ruining the peacefulness that had settled over him.

Harry jerked his head toward the sound. "Ron?"

A head of flaming red hair suddenly appeared at the foot of the stairwell. "Yeah, mate?"

"Where's Hermione?"

A sleek calico cat slunk around the corner of the building and pawed its way over to Harry. He blinked and a muddled Hermione stood before him. "Yes?" she asked, smoothing down her rumpled robes and tucking stray hairs behind her ears.

Harry told them of his and Luna's encounter, although he described it more as Luna suddenly walking up to him to initiate a friendly conversation rather than Luna table dancing, straddling, and snogging him before initiating said friendly conversation. After Harry had finished recounting his meeting with Luna to his two friends and accomplices, Ron's eyes widened. "Luna's a-? Blimey," he muttered.

Hermione looked disapproving. "She's too young for that kind of thing! How terrible!"

"So what are we supposed to do now?" asked Harry.

Hermione deliberated over this. "Well, it doesn't change the basic structure of the plan," she said slowly. "In fact, Luna being a…a _dancer_…can be beneficial to us. It already is, in fact. She's told us there could be something in the dressing room, right?"

"Right," echoed Harry and Ron.

"…so one of us will have to go up there with her, have a look around…" concluded Hermione.

"That'll have to be you," said Harry.

Hermione seemed startled. "What? Why?"

"Because, I take it that they don't allow men to be inside the dressing room as a general rule," Harry said, now his turn to speak with the air of one talking to a child.

"But-" Hermione began, but Ron interrupted her, a grin slowly creasing the corners of his mouth. "So that means…"

"Hermione has to be a stripper," declared Harry gleefully, silently thanking whatever Higher Power had granted him this payback.

"But-but-I wouldn't even be caught dead in that place!" sputtered Hermione, eerily echoing Harry's words.

"Calm down, Hermione, it's not that big of a deal," chuckled Harry, eerily echoing Hermione's words. He and Ron collapsed into a fit of giggles, unfortunately oblivious to the dangerous glint in Hermione's eye and the calculating look on her face.


	4. Paying in naivety

**A/N:** Thanks to everyone who reviewed! REVIEW, PEOPLE, REVIEW! Also, thanks to my friend Binkz for supporting my story wholeheartedly and unconsciously helping me with some of it. You are my muse! -cheesy pickup line- XD

**Disclaimer:** Don't own the Panic! At The Disco wording/concept. :) If you haven't listened to the song yet ("But It's Better If You Do"), GO LISTEN TO IT! It's awesome! Play it in an endless loop as background music for my story! XDDDDDD

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"I can_not_ believe this," muttered Harry.

Hermione was standing nearby, looking smug, while Ron had stuffed a fist into his mouth to stifle his laughter. Luna was helping Harry stuff his chest and lace up his stilettos. After placing a curly blonde wig on Harry's head, Luna drew back to study Harry's makeover. "Hmm, still too masculine," she pronounced after a few moments of scrutiny. She whipped out a makeup kit and advanced menacingly forward; Harry yelped, and both Ron and Hermione had to hold him down while Luna applied beautifying substances to his face. Three minutes later, Harry stood up, wobbling ever so slightly in his heels. "There had better be a Horcrux in that dressing room ready for me to destroy," he grumbled. "Or I'll kill the three of you."

"I think you look quite nice," said Luna brightly, admiring her work.

Hermione covered her mouth with one delicate hand to hide her grin. "I agree, you look lovely as a woman, Harry," she said, her eyes twinkling. Harry glared at her, and wordlessly put on his mask. There were just some things you didn't talk about.

Ron couldn't speak. He was too busy crying.

"Okay, so the plan: Ron and I will be at the bar, pretending to be engaged lovebirds. I, being the generous and loving fiancée, have decided to give my fiancé, Ron, a little bachelor party before our wedding at noon tomorrow. We will stay in the bar area to distract assailants, receive your signal, and/or aid you if need be." Hermione looked around at them. "Any questions or comments so far?"

Harry fidgeted in his pantyhose.

"You never let me have a bachelor party before our wedding," sulked Ron. "Why couldn't you be like the nicer pretend-Hermione?" This remark was promptly met with a swift blow to the head. As Ron was rubbing his head and grumbling darkly about the rearrangement of prenuptial agreements, Hermione ignored him and continued with her instructions. "Luna, you will proceed up to the dressing room with Harry, newly christened Harriet from this point on, and figure out what article of clothing is supposedly the Horcrux. Send down green sparks if you've found something, red sparks for us to come help you, and yellow sparks for us to evacuate. I presume you know the other combinations and amalgamations?" Hermione asked 'Harriet' and Ron sharply.

"Yes, all three thousand, six hundred and twenty-seven of them," replied Harry and Ron unanimously, although their eyes grew shifty.

"Ok, let's go," said Hermione, dragging Ron out of the champagne room, who was wiping his tears away with the folds of his robes, still chuckling slightly. "Bye, Harriet!" Harry glared at the back of Ron's head until the closing door obscured his view. He turned towards Luna. "Where's the dressing room?"

"Upstairs," answered Luna, putting on her mask and headdress so that she was unrecognizable again, save for the large pale eyes that stared unblinkingly out through the holes in her mask. "The staircase is by the stage." She put on her stilettos and walked purposefully out of the room, giving Harry no choice but to follow her clumsily in his own neon green ones, wincing as the peace and quiet of the champagne room disappeared and the general ruckus of the main room filled his ears again.

Luna swept past the stage without acknowledgement of the horny bastards ogling her. When Harry stumbled past by, the long-haired whelp Harry sighted earlier with the brassiere trophy grabbed his arse. "Hey, baby, what about giving me a lap dance?" he slurred.

Harry punched the whelp in the jaw. "I have better things to do then strip for some lowlife loser!" he shouted in a high-pitched voice and trotted away as quickly as he could in three-inch heels, leaving the whelp to clutch his face in agony.

He managed to catch up to Luna, who was rapidly climbing up the stairs. Harry watched, envious of how easy Luna made it look strapped in these ridiculous things, as he was clinging desperately onto the banister for support. _The wizarding world better thank me for all I'm doing for them! _he thought grimly as he nearly fell to his death for the umpteenth time. Luna caught him just in time. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"If there was an Olympics for strutting in heels, you would definitely take the gold," mumbled Harry, managing to pull himself up and find his balance.

"Olympics?" asked Luna quizzically.

"Never mind," said Harry quickly. "Lead the way to the dressing room."

Luna went for the door at the end of the long, twisting, narrow hallway and pulled it open, revealing a large, cluttered room inside smelling faintly of roses. The room was crowded with vanities that were lined up against the wall, littered with cosmetics. There were wardrobes, spilling their contents out onto the floor; piles upon piles of costumes and masks and accessories were strewn all over the place.

Harry groaned when he saw the chaotic state of the dressing room. "It's going to take us years to find the Horcrux," he said, starting to get a headache at the thought of rummaging through girls' unmentionables.

"Well, do you have an idea of what the remaining Horcruxes look like?" inquired Luna. "Perhaps that would help us."

"Well, er…" Harry chewed his bottom lip, trying to think-a difficult task to do when your false eyelashes are irritating you. "I destroyed the diary, Dumbledore destroyed the ring, Hermione, Ron, and I found the locket and destroyed that too…there's Nagini the snake, a Hufflepuff cup, and something of Gryffindor or Ravenclaw left."

"Hmm." Luna looked thoughtfully over to the corner of the dressing room.

"I think we can nix the snake," said Harry, after waiting for Luna to reply and receiving no response. He got on his knees and began sifting through the jumble of garments, jewelry, and shoes. Luna stayed put, eyes still roaming over the mess.

"Luna, if you're not going to help-" said Harry impatiently, but Luna cut him off.

"-no, look." Luna pointed to several display cases partially hidden from view by a pile of seductive shoewear.

"What?"

"There, Harry, don't you see?" Luna's eyes began popping excitedly. "Those display cases."

"Yeah, what about them?" asked Harry irritably.

"They hold the several items highly revered by my coworkers that I mentioned earlier," explained Luna as she walked briskly over to the display cases and tapped each one lightly with her wand.

Harry managed, with some difficulty, to get up and walk over to where Luna was mumbling to herself. He looked at each item in its display case (there were twelve). One case contained a large headdress comprised of feathers and scales. Another contained fishnet stockings that were semi-transparent. Examining a funny pair of pince-nez in the third display case, Harry couldn't help but ask, "But what's so special about these things? I mean, they're kind of different, but-"

"I don't really quite know," said Luna, still tapping her wand against the glass and mumbling to herself. "The boss finds them in other countries. Steals them, more like. They're like souvenirs, almost. See, here's the label-it tells you of its origin and name. But only the doyennes can wear these, and I'm an amateur. Of course, it depends. This week's theme is animals, so you can't wear the Cherub Headdress…"

"The…doyennes?"

"The experts," said Luna. "We're divided into two groups: the doyennes and the amateurs. The doyennes have more experience and are supposedly better. The amateurs are the novices and the inadequate."

"What are you doing?" asked Harry, watching Luna tap every inch of the display case containing the fishnet stockings.

"You can't open it unless you're a doyenne," Luna murmured. "There's some charm we have to break…"

Harry was starting to lose patience. "Why would we want to break it? Luna, I don't think Voldemort's concealed his Horcrux in a pair of fishnet stockings."

Luna looked up, surprised. "I don't think so either. I'm just trying spells on all of them to see if I can make out a pattern." She moved along the row of display cases, until one caught her attention. She beckoned Harry over , who stiffly came, wondering whether this whole thing had been just another wild goose chase.

"Look, Harry." Luna's eyes started popping with excitement again. "I think this could be it."

Harry peered at the item in the display case. It was an eagle mask, made of feathers and blue silk with bronze lining. "The Rowena Mask. 1933, France." Harry read the label. He looked up to find Luna poking and prodding the glass case. "Luna, do you honestly think this is the Horcrux just because it's an eagle…?"

"Week of September 17," said Luna. "_The Quibbler_, volume 60, issue 1473. Article titled 'The Secret Life of Rowena Ravenclaw.' Eagles are affiliated with Ravenclaw House, after all."

"I know that," said Harry. "but that doesn't mean…"

"_The Quibbler_, Harry!" Luna's cheeks were flushed as the purple beam emitted from her wand bounced off of the glass harmlessly. "Rowena received widespread acclaim for her amateur nights at various cabarets throughout Britain. She was a striptease artist, Harry!"

"Wha…?" Harry wanted to laugh, wanted to dismiss this as another absurd _Quibbler_ conspiracy, but his insides were coiling in excitement. It was a possibility…a probability, even…sometimes the most farfetched of lies contained a grain of truth… "Why haven't you noticed the connection before?"

"I'm an amateur, Harry, I wouldn't care for these silly things," said Luna as the fifteenth counter spell she tried failed. "The doyennes are the ones who fuss over them, with their rituals and rules and contests. I didn't even know that the Horcrux could possibly be Ravenclaw-related, so I wouldn't have thought that…"

"Here, let me try," said Harry. He experimented with some of the newfound spells Hermione had patented at headquarters, but to no avail. He fell to the ground in defeat, closing his eyes. "It's now officially three in the morning. I'm tired, sleepy, and a cross-dressing freak. We find a possible Horcrux but we can't get it out of _a stupid glass box!"_

"There must be a way," said Luna firmly, inspecting the display case for the umpteenth time.

"How many spells until we_ find_ a way?" asked Harry bitterly. "A gazillion? We can't do this by ourselves, Luna."

Luna opened her mouth, probably to randomly quote some dead guy or mention a nonexistent species which could help them with this cause, when the door swung open behind them and several loud voices reached their ears at once. Harry winced; his headache was starting to come back on again.

"Well, what are you doing here, Cyan? And who's your friend?" asked a frumpy woman wearing a lacy black corset and tights, her pouchy cheeks half hidden underneath a beaded mask. The other three were (or seemed) young, willowy, and beautiful, which included the girl in the fox mask. They stared at Harry warily, scrutinizing him. A sneer formed on the fox mask girl's lips.

"Hullo, Eunice," said Luna, smiling dreamily. "This is Harriet. The boss hired her and she's starting today. Harriet, this is Eunice, Lola, Peregrine, and Jonquilla, your new workmates."

"Hi…" Harry croaked at the three beautiful women (plus one) who were sizing him up.

Eunice, the frumpy one, shook Harry's hand warmly. "Good, good. We needed an extra for our main feat tonight." Lola and Peregrine smiled and nodded at Harry, while Jonquilla, the girl in the fox mask, simply sniffed and headed to the nearest dressing table to fix her face in a compact.

"Don't mind her, she thinks she's better than the rest of us!" whispered Eunice. "She hates competition-watch out, she'll try to mess with you during tonight's performance."

Harry's head was spinning; he had been automatically signed up for some kind of main feat and he didn't even know how to walk in high heels, let alone twirl around a pole in them. "But…I thought there had been a main feat already," he said desperately, remembering to use a falsetto voice.

"Oh, yes, but we do one nearly every hour and a half or so," replied Eunice. "We make more money that way. Sometimes when the coordinators can't come up with anything, we do the same performance over again. The men here are too drunk to notice anything."

"Oh…so…I'm going to…to…to do that…pole dancing…thing?" asked Harry weakly, feeling faint at the thought. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Harry Potter, the Chosen One. Harry Potter, the Drag Queen.

"Oh no, only doyennes can do the dance routine!" said Eunice, snorting as she laughed. "We let guests stick to the basics; you'll have to work your way up to do the big stuff. No, you'll just be participating in a dramatization."

"And…you're a doyenne?" asked Harry curiously.

Eunice puffed out her chest and smiled toothily. "Yes, yes I am, in fact."

Harry squinted at her, trying with what imagination he had left in his brain to sum up an image of the frumpy woman before him that he would find appeasing. No image came.

"It's only because you're the boss's cousin," said the fox mask girl out of the corner of her mouth.

Eunice glared at her. "Jonquilla, I'll have you know that I worked my arse off for this position. My relationship with our manager had nothing to do with it."

"Oh really?" Jonquilla said silkily, snapping her compact shut. "Because I heard a conversation the other day. Something about you blackmailing the boss. I recorded it for your hearing pleasure, if you'd like to take a listen."

Two bright red patches appeared on Eunice's cheeks; however, she did not answer.

"So, er, don't I need a script…?" asked Harry, breaking the tension in the room.

Jonquilla tittered. "Excuse me?"

"For the dramatization?" asked Harry, raising an eyebrow.

"We don't do scripts," Lola informed him. "We usually have a free rein when it comes to the dialogue as long as we stick to the central plot. Just improvise."

"But…" Harry started, but Luna interrupted him. "It's okay, Lydia's coming in here to talk about it. She's a coordinator."

_"This was not part of the plan!"_ hissed Harry as the others turned away to bicker over what product better suited the eyes, Finley's Merry-Go-Curl or Peacock's Tail in Ecchymosed Black.

Luna smiled and patted Harry on the arm. "It's okay. Dramatizations are easy and rather fun."

"Hunh." Seeing as Luna would not be of any help, Harry huffily sat down in the nearest chair, trying to ignore his throbbing feet. Several more scantily clad striptease artists came in. The place grew noisy and crowded, giving Harry another headache.

Suddenly the door burst open. A rack of clothes came in, followed by a frizzy-haired woman whose hair was tangled with bits of parchment. "Gather around, girls!" said the woman briskly, stopping in the middle of the dressing room. "I'll be going over the dramatization."

All eleven girls pressed in, while Luna and Harry hung behind. "Harry, your instructions," said Luna, tugging at his arm.

"What about you?" asked Harry, refusing to move.

"I'm not in this one," replied Luna.

"WHAT?" Harry roared, ignoring the fact that he was drawing attention to himself. "So I'm supposed to go up onstage by myself and-"

"Don't give yourself away!" Luna hissed.

"Dearie, are you a part of the main feat?" asked the frizzy-haired woman.

"Yes, she is," said Luna immediately. "Sorry, she's rather new to the business. Go on, Harriet." Luna gave Harry a firm shove, and Harry stumbled over to the half-circle of waiting exotic dancers.

The frizzy-haired woman squinted at him. "Hmm. Ellen's things may be a wee too big on you, but I'll resize them, quick as a rabbit." She clapped her hands to get everyone's attention. "Okay, then!" She pulled out her wand and flicked it. A display board unfurled from the ceiling, revealing a complicated diagram with arrows and zigzags and figures. Harry felt a very boring and superfluous talk coming on, the kind Oliver Wood used to give back at Hogwarts before practices and Quidditch matches, and inwardly groaned. "Listen here, lassies," said the frizzy-haired woman, tapping the diagram with her wand which automatically assigned positions. Harry guessed that he was Fig. 7, labeled "Replacement."

"Figures 1-12 will be situated here, here, here, and so on. 1-6 won't have to say a word. Smile pretty, act childlike, and complain about the heat in the background. The skit is called 'A Summery Seduction.' Plot: figures 7-12 talk amongst themselves. Slip off little things-wristlet, an outer coat. When the music gets fast-paced get a little drama in. In the end, two of you have to be accused or found out about something, one of you must confess your love for another, and another will be dead at the hands of a jealous rivalry. The point is to get you down to your skimpy things in the end." The frizzy-haired woman tapped the board with her wand and it quickly flew back into the ceiling. "Questions? Concerns? Complaints?" Before Harry could open his mouth, the frizzy-haired woman chirped, "Those'll come later. Let's move on, shall we?" She pulled the articles of clothing off the rack and shoved them into each exotic dancer's hands. "Get dressed. You have ten minutes."

When the frizzy-haired woman reached Harry, she squinted at him again. "Remove your clothes."

"But-er-I'd prefer privacy," said Harry hurriedly.

"One of those, are you? Go behind that screen, then, and come to me again so I can make your clothes properly fit. Ellen was rather large in the torso area…hmm, yours are titchy." It was when the woman left when Harry realized she was referring to his imitation breasts. He rolled his eyes and ducked behind the screen, tearing off his clothes and slipping into his new ones. Lingerie…clothes…outer clothes… more outer clothes…after six layers he felt stuffed as a turkey. He peered out above the screen and immediately wished he hadn't; there were eleven undressing exotic dancers out there, feeding his sickening male mind perverted images and fantasies.

"Harriet? Are you done?" Luna went behind the screen, eying him with a little smile on her lips.

"I guess." Harry was trying hard not to imagine how disturbing he looked. "Ok, I've come up with a plan. While I romp around onstage for the sake of mankind, send red sparks down to Ron and Hermione. Then sneak up to the dressing room, break open the display case-Hermione could probably do it in five seconds flat-take the mask, and go to headquarters. I'll try to weasel my way out of this stupid thing and join you guys later."

"That won't work, Harry," said Luna, looking over her shoulder.

"Why not?" asked Harry stubbornly.

"Because," answered Luna, "look." She peered round the screen and motioned Harry likewise. He obeyed.

All eleven girls surrounded the frizzy-haired woman, who tapped her wand on a display case and removed the top panel. "Who deserves to wear the Rowena Mask?" she asked, carefully taking it out and presenting it to the surrounding admirers. Half of them retreated; apparently they were amateurs.

"I think we all know the answer to that question," said Jonquilla arrogantly.

"Only one way to find out," said the frizzy-haired woman briskly. "Pull out your wands."

Jonquilla did, with a flourish; the others complied more reluctantly. Their heads bent over, obscuring Harry's view of what exactly they were doing with their wands. "What exactly are they doing with their wands?" asked Harry, oblivious to the redundancy.

"Comparing them," explained Luna. "There's a spell that ignites a certain number of wands in the proximity and reveals each doyenne's customer satisfaction level."

A few seconds later, cries and groans rose into the air and Jonquilla raised her wand up in triumph; apparently she had come out on top. A cloud of smoke trailed lazily from her wand tip, its color ranging from pale yellow all the way to a fierce red.

"Er, wait!" said Harry, thinking fast and hurrying forward. "Can I wear the Rowena Mask?"

The other dancers looked over to Harry, scandalized.

"You!" scoffed Jonquilla. "You're barely an amateur."

"No, I use to be a doyenne in another place," argued Harry, his fingers itching to snatch up the Horcrux and leave. "I'm good. Really good."

"I'm sorry dear, but that's not how it works," said the frizzy-haired woman kindly. "You'll have to prove yourself here, and not just with questionable talk." She turned towards Jonquilla and placed the Rowena Mask in her impatient, manicured hands. "Here you go, dear. What an honor, hmm?"

Jonquilla slipped the mask over her eyes and smirked at Harry, who stuck out his tongue at her because he just felt like being immature.

"Places, everyone!" shouted the frizzy-haired woman, sweeping aside several garish robes to reveal a trapdoor in the floor which she pulled open and began herding everyone in. Harry's misgivings about the whole thing grew tenfold; he wondered whether he could make a quick getaway and searched frantically for possible escape routes. He spotted Luna, who was calmly observing him from the corner of the room; she didn't look it, but with the way she had pushed him earlier, she might be able to knock the breath out of him in a blink of an eye had he any sudden moves. Harry decided to stick to nervous twitching with a dash of perspiration.

Luna mouthed something to him but he couldn't make out the words. 'Good luck'? 'You can do it'? 'Ha-ha, you look funny in a trench coat and high heels'? Before he could voice his puzzlement, the frizzy-haired woman approached him and then proceeded to drag him over to the trapdoor. "Don't worry, I haven't forgotten you." She tapped Harry on the shoulder with her wand until Harry felt like he was wearing a straitjacket. "Thanks," he rasped sarcastically as his corset was magically tightened to the point of breaking a couple of ribs, but she did not seem to hear. "There, I've fitted you. Now-" she yanked several bits of parchment from her hair and attempted to roughly stuff them into Harry's brassiere; he quickly threw his arms out to prevent her from touching his ersatz bosom and thus discovering his true identity. "What's this?" He snatched up the pieces of parchment.

"Lines and a little advice that may help a bit, since you're new," replied the frizzy-haired woman. "Just surreptitiously look at them during the skit." And with that, she stuffed him down trapdoor, so that he ended up splayed uncomfortably on the stairs below. The last thing he saw as he looked up was Luna and the frizzy-haired woman waving merrily at him, and the trapdoor as it was swung shut in his face.

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Hermione sat herself on a stool, planting Ron firmly down into the seat next to hers. "You don't have to be so rough," complained Ron, rubbing his arm tenderly.

"Oh, boo hoo," said Hermione indifferently.

The bartender looked over at them. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"We're, er, getting married tomorrow!" explained Hermione brightly. "I just wanted to treat my little darling to a bit of fun before we do. A bachelor party."

"Usually that's prearranged with the boss," said the bartender, whose brow creased into a furrow.

"Well…this was last minute, actually," said Hermione.

Ron goggled at all the scantily clad striptease artists about, his freckles standing out from the rapid paleness of his complexion. _"Scarlet_ women!"

"Shut up, dear," hissed Hermione. She turned to the bartender, his brow was still knitted into a frown. "This may seem a bit unorthodox…but do you mind?"

"Your fiancé seems a bit fidgety," the bartender observed. "Are you sure he wants a bachelor party?"

"Positive," replied Hermione at once. "He's just shy. Blabbers on like you wouldn't believe." She laughed heartily.

"OI! Are you talking about me?" asked Ron indignantly. "I don't _blabber-"_

"He's also a bit tetchy," said Hermione loudly, elbowing Ron in the ribs.

The bartender merely grunted; although the wrinkling in his brow lessened slightly. "Where are your guests, then? Bachelor parties, they're usually attended by men. Wouldn't you just get in the way?"

"Erm…" Hermione was at a loss of words.

"She's bloody annoying, always following me everywhere," said Ron conversationally. "Very mixed up-she'd want me to have a bachelor party but then she wants to tail me so she can keep me in check. Women!"

Hermione whacked him in the head. "Well, he invited some of his friends…relatives, and such," she said hastily. "But…er, it seems they'll be arriving a bit late…and I've said it was last minute…."

"I'll have a Blooder then," ordered Ron, who seemed to have forgotten about the "scarlet women" doing God-knows-what behind him.

"The same for me, too," said Hermione. As the bartender turned to mix their drinks, she jabbed Ron in the chest. "_'Bloody annoying'_?"

"Well you called me blabbering and shy!" retorted Ron.

"Well you _are!"_ said Hermione impatiently.

"Well I think you're bloody annoying!" shouted Ron.

"Then _why_ are we getting married tomorrow?" Hermione shrieked back. "You are _such_ a prat, I could do better-" She noticed the bartender holding their drinks and snatched hers up. "Thank you," she said, smiling sweetly, and downed the whole goblet. It refilled itself instantly. "Comes with the package," said the bartender gruffly.

"What package?" Ron grabbed his drink as well. Not to be outdone, he drank his all in three gulps, swallowing noisily.

"The bachelor party package," said the bartender. "You get refills on drinks, a lap dance, and-"

Both Hermione and Ron choked while on their third Blooder. "Come again?" Hermione asked, coughing.

"Well, that's the whole point of a bachelor party, isn't it?" said the bartender unconcernedly. "Get rid o' those pre-wedding jitters. And that'll be fifteen Galleons."

Ron spat out his fourth Blooder. "F_-fifteen?_ I could make a down payment on my broom with that!"

"Oh for heaven's sake!" Hermione got out the appropriate amount of money and handed it to the bartender. The register clinked as he dropped the coins in. Ron shot Hermione a dirty look, now on his fifth Blooder. "I asked you for money yesterday and now you just _happen_ to have fifteen Galleons in your stupid bum bag?"

Hermione's face turned red, partially from anger and partially from consuming her seventh alcoholic beverage. "First of all, I didn't let you borrow the four Galleons and three Sickles you asked for yesterday because you were going to buy a _porn _magazine-don't bother blushing now, R-Edmund, I've seen _and _confiscated all the ones you've hidden in your sock drawer-second of all, the money I've used just now was actually put to good use, and _lastly,_ Edmund, _my bum bag is not stupid!"_ she exploded with this last sentence, probably because whenever her knitting skills were under fire it tended to be an extremely touchy subject for her.

Ron yelled back (although he was not good at rapidly organizing his thoughts in a heated exchange as Hermione was), "FIRSTLY, THOSE ARE FRED'S, SO YOU'LL HAVE TO GIVE THEM BACK, NEXTLY, YOUR BUM BAGS _ARE_ STUPID AND THEY LOOK LIKE WOOLLY BLADDERS, AND _LASTLY-_why'd you call me Edmund?"

You had to feel sorry. For Ron, that is. Harry was more fortunate, he had two chances before Hermione would enact Part Three of How To Persuade Harry To Do Something; Ron had only one with the whole How to Get Ron Killed process. First was the warning voice and/or death stare, next was the explosion. And Ron had just hit step two with his woolly bladder comment.

A muscle twitched in Hermione's jaw. Ron quickly gulped down his seventh Blooder so that the alcohol could numb the pain he was sure his wife was going to inflict upon him. However, he was pleasantly (or so he thought) surprised, as Hermione suddenly relaxed and smiled just as he had flinched. "It's okay, R-I mean, Edmund," she said airily, sipping her drink. "I understand. Completely."

"You-er-do?" asked Ron, befuddled. The alcohol wasn't helping much either.

"Sure," said Hermione, smiling sweetly again. _Poisoned honey,_ Ron couldn't help but think. Hermione rapped the counter and the bartender glanced at her nervously. "One lap dance for the husband-to-be, please." She shook her goblet for emphasis, making an ominous sloshing sound.

"Wha…" Ron's ruddy face whitened.

The bartender nodded over to someone behind them; before Ron could voice his protests two pairs of gloved hands seized him. He looked up, horrified.

"Hey, lover," greeted one of the strippers that was latching onto him. Ron shut his eyes, mumbling feverishly. _A dream, a dream, this is all just a dream-_

"Don't worry, we know how to deal with shy boys like you," purred the other one, donning peacock feathers. "You'll have fun,I promise." Somehow this statement had twisted into a malicious threat when it reached Ron's ears and the convulsions promptly began. As the two exotic dancers dragged Edmund the Bridegroom twitching to his doom, Hermione rolled her eyes and swigged down her eleventh Blooder. "You would think he had caligynephobia, or something," she snippily remarked.

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	5. As she sheds her skin on stage

**A/N: **'Ello! I know it's been a very long time...heh, sorry. But school is crazy and I'm running out of ideas and you all know how procrastinate-y I am. Er...this was s'pose to be the final chapter, but I haven't any inspiration or energy or time to finish it, so...here's a half-finished thingymajigger! _-_beams- I apologize if it isn't up to scratch...my mind thinks weird. Baddd, brainy, badd. But, you don't wanna listen to some creepy little girl who patronizes herself and yaps on and on. Kawing! Pow! Zooom...blap. -sound effects pwn-

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Harry slowly got up and dusted himself off. Not bothering with inconspicuousness, he simply stared blatantly around at his surroundings, unaware that he was twirling a lock of blonde hair (apparently dressing as the opposite sex was starting to have an effect on him). He guessed that he was in one of the wings of the stage, and that the loud, unintelligible noise over the intercom was announcing a show that he would be starring in a few minutes. Well, not so much star in it as play a small role, he hoped. He glanced over towards Jonquilla. It was obvious who the burlesque queen was, with all those other girls fawning over her. Perhaps feeling the power of Harry's stare, she turned towards him and offered him another smirk. " Good luck-what was your name again?"

"Harry…et. Harriet," Harry quickly corrected himself.

"I'd never have the nerve to do it." There was a nasty smile playing on Jonquilla's lips.

"Er…what?" Harry was quite sure that her following comment wouldn't be anything good and was instantly sorry that he had asked; he had been too distracted with his murderous thoughts of Hermione, who was to blame for this whole disaster, and was slow on the uptake.

"Black eyebrows, blonde hair? Please. It's not even retro yet. And haven't you ever heard of tweezers? Or Sleekeazy's Hair Removal Potion?"

Harry started to laugh; Jonquilla merely looked at him condescendingly. "What, was that suppose to offend me?" he asked, still chuckling. It was ridiculous how girls had these catty exchanges and were so easily offended; it wasn't like one of them had been talking about the other's mum-now _that_ was a serious issue.

Jonquilla eyed him suspiciously, as he had accidentally letting masculinity slip into his tone. "What's wrong with your voice?"

"Nothing, frog in my throat," he lied, pitching his voice up a bit.

"Dear, dear," Jonquilla said without an ounce of sympathy in her voice. "Let's hope you haven't gotten laryngitis now." She walked away, four to five sycophants teetering after her.

Harry made a face at her out of spite. Also, he just felt like being immature.

Another capriccio strummed up on the speakers and the lights were ominously doused, leaving a very fidgety Harry to sweat his anxieties out in the dark. His heart was beating a tattoo in his rib cage. This was absolutely _mad. _He remembered resolutely telling Dumbledore back when he was sixteen and naïve that yes, he was _choosing _to be the one to kill Voldemort. But he did not recall Dumbledore ever mentioning danger in the form of elaborately decorated, skimpy lingerie and a stripper pole. Perhaps if he had, Harry would have reconsidered his decision. Seriously, though.

Soon the other exotic dancers started queuing up to a set of steps that led to the stage. The show had begun.

------------

Hermione was still at the bar drinking her fifteenth Blooder and mumbling angrily to herself. "…taking me for granted…can iron his _own_ underwear…"

Luna wandered over and took up the seat next to Hermione. "Hullo there," she said rather dreamily.

"Luna! Where's Harry?" asked Hermione, snapping out of her tirade at once.

"Oh, he's going to be performing," said Luna cheerily, pointing a tad unnecessarily at the stage. "And my alias is _Cyan."_

Hermione choked on her Blooder again. "_Performing?" _she repeated, gasping for breath.

"Why, yes," said Luna vaguely. "It would have been suspicious if he had declined. He was all dressed up like it, didn't you know? I thought this was your idea."

"Well, he was supposed to lie low!" sputtered Hermione. "And-oh, Harry is going to _hate_ me!" (Coincidentally, it was at this time Harry was unconsciously strangling the air backstage, as if the molecules straying around in the open actually held some resemblance to the bushy-haired girl drinking cocktails mere yards away.)

Luna shrugged her shoulders delicately. "Oh, I doubt that. He'll manage," she said without the slightest ounce of anxiety or worry. "Gregory, I'll have some yeag."

The bartender looked up. "Cyan, is it?" He took down a heavyset glass bottle from the shelf filled with a brown liquid and passed it over to Luna.

Luna examined the bottle, popped the cork, poured some into a goblet, and steadily drank.

"Luna-I mean, Cyan, you're sixteen, you can't _drink_!" protested Hermione.

"It's quite all right, the Cat's Eye isn't much for the law," said Luna, pouring herself more yeag. "By the way, I didn't know you've turned twenty-one."

"I haven't, but that's different," Hermione said haughtily. "I'm _eighteen._" However, her thirst for knowledge won over her fetish for telling people off so she asked, "What _is _yeag?"

"Swedish distilled liquor," said Luna. "It's not very strong, but it's very good for cleansing the mind."

"Oh really," scoffed Hermione. "I suppose that's some excuse _The Quibbler _made up to make drinking seem decent."

Luna fixed her with a steadfast gaze and said in a singsong voice, "_There once was a little birdie known as a hypocrite, and on its usual place it would go and sit, chirping 'budgerigars are glued to humans like feathers!', oblivious to the shoulder to which it was tethered."_

Hermione quickly dropped her goblet as though scalded. Luna bit back a smile and continued, "No, yeag actually _is_ good for you. Fermented Crumple-Horned Snorkack urine."

Hermione gagged. "Ew, Lu-Cyan, that's disgusting."

"Really?" said Luna, oblivious. "I've never thought so. Snorkacks are abstractivores-they usually feed on wild imaginations and half-baked ideas, that's why their urine is essential in strengthening the mental state."

"Oh, I bet on it," Hermione muttered under her breath.

Luna thrust the bottle of yeag at her. "Why don't you try some? Maybe it'll help expand your narrow mind."

"No, thanks," Hermione said, taking offense, although she knew Luna hadn't insulted her with malicious intent. "Have you and Harry located the objective?"

"Objective?" repeated Luna.

"Yes, the Horcrux!" said Hermione impatiently.

"Oh, that. You know, you're not very drunk for someone who's had fifteen cocktails," added Luna.

"Must be magic," said Hermione wryly. "I can hold my own, thank you very much. The Horcrux?"

"A mask," said Luna.

"A mask?" Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Why on earth would Voldemort hide a bit of his soul in a _mask?"_

Luna stared at her, her eyes ever wide. "Harry told me most of them are concealed within important artifacts belonging to the founders of Hogwarts. The mask is one of them."

"Come off it, how can this mask be linked to any of the founders?" said Hermione with the utmost scorn in her voice.

"It's known as Rowena's Mask," said Luna clearly. "Apparently the boss bartered it off a vendor in France."

"Coincidence," dismissed Hermione. "What evidence is there really that it could be a Horcrux?"

"It's designed to look like an eagle," said Luna, her eyes icing over. "And there are records of Rowena being a noted exotic dancer at one point in her life. Since the dancer wearing the mask at this very minute is performing, Harry's best chances of getting the Horcrux is stealthily taking it from her during the performance-"

Hermione erupted right there and then. "Luna!" exploded Hermione. "A _stripper? _You _honestly_ think that Rowena Ravenclaw was a _stripper? _You've just let Harry be publicly humiliated by your erroneous thinking, and all for nothing!"

Luna jutted her chin out, defiant. "Dad doesn't print false things in his magazine."

"Rowena lived over _a thousand years ago, _there were no such things as strip clubs back then!" said Hermione in exasperation.

"Well, a doppelganger-" Luna started to argue, but Hermione cut her off, looking slightly alarmed. "The lights grew dim just now. Why is that?"

Luna's eyes darted to the stage. She didn't have to say anything more.

"Oh, no," breathed Hermione. "The show's begun."

------------

A seizure of panic had overtaken Harry, reminiscent to one of Ron's, when he had proposed to Hermione, or rather had _tried_ to propose to her, but had simply stayed frozen to the spot, trembling and letting out a few stammers every now and then until the twins had to come to his rescue, but-er…that's another story. Eunice noticed Harry's immobility, waddled over, and proceeded to drag him up the stairs. "Stage fright, I warrant," she said cheerily over her shoulder, her pudgy hand gripping Harry's wrist in a deathlike grip.

"Oh gods-" choked Harry as Eunice yanked him onto the stage and left him hanging helplessly in the spotlight, where he saw pairs and pairs of eyes look at him hungrily in the male-concentrated audience. The lilt of music played gently in the background. The scenery consisted of what looked like main street in Paris, France on a midsummer day-sure enough, the outline of the Eiffel Tower could be seen amidst other weaved-in elements of the theatrical backdrop. Poles cleverly disguised as lampposts had been built into the scenery, into niches, where six exotic dancers dressed in naughty little schoolgirl clothes were swinging about in an almost childlike fashion, letting out little moans of how incredibly sweltering the day was.

Harry was unsure of what to do. He squinted at the bits of parchment crumpled in his fist for "advice."

_"I know what you did last week and the evidence is sitting right in my aunt's uterus!"_

What in Merlin's name was that suppose to mean? He discarded the line and looked hopefully at the next one.

_"Begging your pardon for being forward, but my bones are shaking like I need to get up on a table and dance the cancan until my clothes fall off."_

Harry discarded this one too, for obvious reasons.

_Pout your lips and bat your eyes. It's a classic, works every time._

Harry groaned and stuffed them all into his pocket; he would have to, as Lola put it, "improvise". He certainly wasn't going to be using the frizzy-haired woman's so-called tips. If the word _uterus _so much as slipped out his mouth, Ron would never let him live it down. Instead, Harry looked towards the other five exotic dancers with him for reference as to what he was supposed to do. There were a number of props littered throughout the stage, designed to look like the outside of a restaurant in the town square-tea tables and spindly little chairs, decorative china, a stone fountain in the shape of a cluster of mermaids, their open marble mouths spurting out jets of water. Lola-or was it Peregrine?-was dressed in a sexy French maid outfit, equipped with notepad and pencil.

Another dancer Harry did not know was also dressed as a maid and scrubbing a table in a seductive manner. Peregrine-or was it Lola?-was sitting in one of the chairs, sharing a table with Jonquilla, who was lazily using a paper fan to cool herself off. Eunice carried a parasol, wandering around aimlessly. Well, _they _had certainly got into their roles. Harry decided to stick to staying rooted to the spot and looking stupid (and once again playing with a strand of fake blonde hair).

"It's been blazing this summer," said Eunice conversationally, slipping off her gloves and removing her cloak.

Everyone else slowly took off their first layer of outerwear with murmurings of agreement. Harry removed his trench coat awkwardly, feeling stupid, wincing the noise level from the audience upped several notches.

"Yes, very," replied Jonquilla, removing her scarf and coat and tossing it carelessly over her shoulder. "Wish I was in the Himalayas again. I spent last summer over there filming a movie."

"I heard you were engaged to that one man-" added Lola or Peregrine.

"-the one in that one film? Yes," said Jonquilla, the spotlight catching the shimmer of the feathers decorating her mask. "Oh, it's awfully, awfully hot. I hope you shan't mind, but-" with a flourish, she peeled off her dress. The second layer. Everyone followed suit. Harry shrunk into the corner and clumsily removed himself of his heavy velvet gown, only to be pushed back into the front by Eunice. The rhythm of the music picked up.

"So, this man," said Lola or Peregrine. "You love him?"

Jonquilla turned her eyes toward her. "Yes," she said, expressionless.

"-even after what we shared?" said Lola or Peregrine, feigning hurt.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Jonquilla coolly.

Lola (or Peregrine) let out a shriek just as the music started reaching boisterous levels; Harry, caught up in the drama of it all, sucked in his breath. She tore off her third layer and lunged at Jonquilla, pulling her wand out of a thigh holster. "I'll kill you!" she shouted, knocking Jonquilla from her chair and pinning her down. The spectators cheered at the first sign of a little girl-on-girl action.

Jonquilla looked up at Lola fearlessly. "Get off of me, you half-crazed lesbian."

Lola (or Peregrine) opened her mouth to respond, when Peregrine (or Lola) broke a flower vase over her head. Lola (or Peregrine)'s eyes went oddly blank, and a stream of blood trickled down her temple. She crumpled over forwards, so that her body caged Jonquilla in. _It's fake, _Harry told himself, his fists clenching and unclenching. _Suppress your saving-people-thing instinct to go and rescue her-it's fake, it's fake, it's fake-_

Jonquilla promptly pushed the girl off of her to get up and dust herself off, leaving Lola (or Peregrine) in a mangled heap on the floor. "Thank you, Peregrine."

"Please. She's melodramatic, about time someone did her in," said Peregrine, who was Peregrine after all. "Plus I was tired of her stealing all of my paramours. She thinks she's so much better than me, always strutting around. Stupid prima donna."

"Is that jealousy talking, or the chardonnay?" asked Jonquilla, half smiling. She examined her chemise. "The blood's seeped through. Even magic won't remove the stain completely. Pity." And with that, she removed her last three layers of ridiculously overdecorative petticoats, so that she was, as the frizzy-haired woman would have said, "down to her skimpy things".

"It must be the chardonnay." Peregrine shook her head.

Eunice hurried forward and removed Lola of her two petticoats, putting two fingers on the girl's wrist, wary of the puddle of blood forming on the floor. "She's dead, for sure," Eunice proclaimed after finding no pulse. She reflexively put a hand on Lola's chest. "No heartbeat at all."

"That's just as well," spat Peregrine, just as the music died down to a low rumble.

Harry decided to stop gawking like a spectator on the sidelines and take matters into his own hands. He analyzed the situation first, something Hermione had drilled into his brain. The objective, this case being one of Voldemort's Horcruxes, was currently in the enemy's hands, or rather, nestled on a very bitchy burlesque queen's face who was standing but ten feet away from him. The obstacles would be…pretty much everyone surrounding him save for his accomplices, who were in no position to aid him at the moment. Mission status quo: undergoing minor setbacks. Harry bit his lip, wondering how he could sneak off with the mask without it seeming strange.

Unfortunately for him, Jonquilla had her eyes glued to his every move, targeting her next victim. "I remember you," she said. "I met you briefly at the family reunion last year."

"Er…yeah," said Harry, his mock-effeminate voice squeaking. "Just a second cousin's step uncle's ex-wife's nephew's daughter. Something or other."

"Hmm." Jonquilla moved forward, eying him with such a Lunalike intensity that it made him fidget. "I've heard tell from my aunt that you underwent surgery."

Harry's mouth grew dry, uncomfortably aware that the music had started up into frenzied chords again. "Oh, yeah, my appendix…er….exploded…it took a while to sort things out. Heh."

"Oh, no." Jonquilla's smile turned nasty again. "Weren't you _Harold _before?"

_In the end, two of you have to be accused or found out about something, one of you must confess your love for another, and another will be dead at the hands of a jealous rivalry,_ the frizzy-haired woman had said. And Jonquilla was milking every opportunity she had to discredit and disgrace the competition on stage. Namely Harry. He supposed she had taken note of his masculine proportions and thought it would get a very nice confession out of him, admitting he was some crackpot who shot himself full of estrogen each day in hopes of becoming the opposite sex and finally paying some surgeon to rearrange…stuff down there. He would be publicly humiliated, she would get a standing ovation. A feather in her cap, no doubt, he thought moodily.

"Weren't you Harold before?" repeated Jonquilla, placing emphasis on the name. "Wondered why your name was slightly altered, _Harriet."_

Harry's heart was thumping fast. Calm down, he told himself. She doesn't know you're _really_ a guy. She's just a big, fat-well no-a god-awful anorexic _meanie, _that's what she is. Just play along, Harry, and-

HERMIONE, GET OUT OF MY HEAD! Harry inwardly screamed.

"I've seen your 'before' pictures," said Jonquilla mockingly. "Well, what do you know? Handsome man, ugly girl."

Harry composed himself. "Now is this the chardonnay talking, or penis envy?" he asked. "Because I'm thinking penis envy. Maybe _you're _the transsexual."

The other exotic dancers stifled their laughter. Jonquilla's lip jutted out dangerously. Harry went on, the applause and cheers from the audience egging him on. "It's okay, Jonquilla," he said, enjoying turning tables on her, "Admit it. The only reason you're scapegoating me is so that no one could pin the drag queen tag on _you." _And he wrenched the mask from Jonquilla's eyes, feeling triumphant.

Jonquilla's eyes flashed dangerously. "Oh, really?" Then suddenly she was tearing his mask off as well, and in the process knocking Harry's blonde wig clean from his head so that it went skidding across the floor, landing on Eunice's shoe-Eunice screamed-looking for all the world like an extremely hairy, mangy, discolored dog sitting quietly as a matted pile on Eunice's feet while she, Eunice, vigorously attempted to kick the ratty mess away, yelling expletives.

Everyone in the proximity looking at Harry and following the trail of his wig gasped just as the music rose to a crescendo; even Jonquilla's mouth was hanging open in shock. One audience member shouted drunkenly, "It's Harry Potter!"

Feeling all eyes fixated on him, the murmurings growing louder and louder, Harry was having another panic attack. Things were going terribly, terribly wrong.

Mission status quo: complete chaos.

------------


	6. I'm afraid that I may have faked it

**A/N:** AHH! IT'S DONE! I CAN'T FRICKIN BELIEVE IT! Thanks to everyone who reviewed! **-**waves at the people who haven't reviewed (ones who've Favorited/Alerted/c2ed this story or have just simply read it through) and really should review upon this story's completion- I'm going to cut this short and say two things: 1) No one mentioned my error in the chapter before, in which I called the strip club The Cat's _Eye_ instead of The Cat's _Paw_, so I'm assuming everyone doesn't care or is just as negligent as me. :O But..ehh I too lahzeee to fixx. 2) It's strange how this is 123523423x longer than Newlyweds, and yet I've got this done. Heh. I really need that laptop...

And now, without further ado, THE FINAL CHAPTER!

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Hermione wrung her hands. "Luna! We have to get him off that stage!"

"Why?" said Luna, utterly nonplussed.

"Well-because-" Hermione faltered. No matter how discreet the plan, they would without a doubt still manage to draw attention to themselves. Besides, she still had yet to avenge Harry for the time he bought her _How to DeBorify an Essentially Boring Being_ (the complete fifteen-volume set with an added bonus of a Mr. Microphone © and an oversized Afro wig for kicks) for Christmas. "-oh, well screw it," she muttered before collapsing into her seat again.

Luna shrugged and drank more yeag. After a few minutes of staring off into space she shook her head to clear her mind of all distracting thoughts-which was much more difficult than it seemed, especially when you thought so much it was pretty much unconscious mental exercise. Luna wagered that by next month her brain would shed at least five pounds' worth of misconceptions. "Hermione."

"Yes?"

"Why are you slumped over the counter with your eyes peeking between your fingers every now and then just to flinch and cover them up completely again?" Luna questioned, intrigued. "Is it a secret Order tactic I don't know about? It looks like the ritual one must complete in order to ward off Blanglikgokkens."

"No, there's a simpler explanation," said Hermione, face still buried in her hands. "I'm a bit grossed out to see Harry in drag, that's all. Not to mention disturbed."

Luna nodded. "Harry's rather good though, isn't he? If he ever needs a job I would recommend him. In fact, the boss needs new employees. We can share a cubby and I'll show him my compilation of Crumple-Horned Snorkack pictures in photo booth sticker form that I've accumulated from overseas trips to South America and stuck on my locker door. Dad and I've found that there's a breed over there with enhanced adaptation abilities and-"

"Luna," said Hermione, using every ounce of patience she had in order to stifle the urge to roll her eyes and groan, "_please_ stop talking about Horny-Crumping Snorlacks or whatever they're called. And you are NOT recommending Harry or anyone else for that matter to voluntarily shake their possibly questionable _tatas_ on stage for ogling scumbags with no sense of decorum to see. "

Luna broke into peals of uncontrollable, screaming laughter; Hermione stared, affronted. "You said-you said-_tatas_-" Luna gasped, doubled over.

"Oh, great. You have the sense of humor of a five-year-old," Hermione harrumphed as Luna wiped away her tears, giggling. "You're just as bad as Ro-" And suddenly she turned white, as if she'd spotted a Blanglikgokken. Which wasn't possible because Hermione had already done the anti-Blanglikgokken ritual. "What is it, Hermione?" Luna asked finally, fascinated with Hermione's passionate outbursts. In fact, Luna had been planning on submitting an article to the _Quibbler_ about the juxtaposition of the female creature and Sniggling Viperlogs; Hermione would be a contributing example.

"I've just realized-Ron-"

Luna looked around, her brow wrinkling in slight bemusement. "Yes, where is Ronald? I'm afraid I forgot all about him."

"I let those-those-" Hermione stood up so fast that her stool fell over. "Constant-vigilance-" she said through gritted teeth to Luna and with those parting words she barreled away, charging through a cluster of innocent strippers and knocking over a pair of drunkards in order to get to the champagne rooms.

Luna whipped out a notepad and self-inking quill and scribbled some fact or figure down furiously. "…instincts are identical… prowess, ditto…" she muttered. She looked up then, her brows knitted. Something wasn't quite right with the atmosphere. She looked around, her protuberant eyes on the rampage. Everyone was silent. Mouths were agape. And Harry…Harry's wig had fallen off!

Luna ran through a list of things she could do right now in order to save Harry. She could…no, she couldn't. It wasn't possible to get a horde of Gulping Plimpies, pixie dust, and some Spellotape in under five seconds flat. First off, the boss didn't supply his employees with office apparatus, so that would be a nix to the Spellotape. And secondly…oh dear…she had been contemplating strategies for over five seconds and now it was too late. So she did the only thing she could do at the moment-pull out her wand in case she had to jinx someone and hope Harry had some sort of plan.

"Erm…surprise! You've discovered one of the Chosen One's many talents," said Harry brightly albeit weakly, right on cue. The exotic dancers that shared the stage with him hung back, uncertain and wary. Even the supposedly dead Lola had quickly gotten up from her sprawled position on the floor, dripping blood aside, in favor of peeking out from behind the curtain. In the corner of Harry's eye he saw a group of Death Eaters, prominent with their hooded figures and dark cloaks. He hoped they were all too drunk to notice, recognize, and/or do something about him.

Just then, a beam of green light grazed past Harry's ear, setting off a chain reaction of gasps and screams. "Freeze, Potter," drawled one of the Death Eaters. "and we might just spare your life."

"Bloody comedic-timed reversals," Harry muttered darkly.

------------

There were approximately three Death Eaters at the Cat's Paw tonight-Amycus, Travers, and Greyback-and only one of them wasn't severely drunk-Amycus. Yaxley owned the club, which meant free drinks, and free drinks often lead to binging. Travers had spent all night wooing a stripper who knew a sucker when she saw one, and Greyback becoming louder and more obnoxious by the minute, the lycanthropic son-of-a-bitch.

Amycus sighed. Being a Death Eater was a rather stressful job, which was why he had come here in the first place, but taking care of a pair of drunken Death Eaters was just a tad more stressful. He should have known better than to come to a strip club with this pair of ninnies. Travers had promised he would be Amycus's wingman for tonight. Apparently not, judging by all the spooning Travers was doing over there with the gold digging whore, who kept slyly Accio'ing Galleons out of the git's pockets. As you could probably tell, Amycus was not very good with women, and so he was left playing the I'm-too-distinguished-and-haughty-for-this-place card, which could just as easily be interpreted as the "I'm too sullen and emo to have a good time" ploy. Whether or not others read him doing the latter or the former, each had two distinctive features-one was sitting at a table with a defiant facial expression and two was ignoring the bar's beverages in favor of continually Spelling alcohol into one's goblet, which is actually rather rude considering the environment he was in.

Just when Amycus had reached his breaking point, what with the umpteenth time he'd had to Vanish Greyback's sick off his shoes and all the extremely in-your-face action going on with Travers and the aforementioned guileful stripper in front of his face, there was a bit of chaos, followed by a shout. "It's Harry Potter!"

Where? Amycus stood up quickly, swaying a little bit before he composed himself. He couldn't quite recall the amount of alcohol he had ingested, but he felt dandy! Really! He had even successfully dodged a long-haired man who let out a groaning "And I hit on _that!"_ before succumbing to a drunkard's fate-which is keeling over and vomiting. Amycus looked around wildly, spotting some sort of grotesque looking woman up on a stage. Amycus squinted. Oh no, it was just a freakish man. Well…it did look like Potter, a weedy little thing with the hair and glasses…he looked like a bag of shit up there, truth be told…bloody teenagers today, using all sorts of shocking tactics to get attention…he shook his head disdainfully, then remembered that Potter was Public Enemy Number One (from the Dark Side's perspective, although the irony was not lost on Amycus) and casted a little teaser to get the freak's attention. "Freeze, Potter," he said, working on the diabolical lithe tone Malfoy was expert at, although his tongue didn't seem to be working properly, "and we might just spare your life." Or will we? He thought, his mind going fuzzy. What did the Dark Lord say to do when we've caught the stupid little boy…who, come to think of it…isn't quite as stupid as we make him out to be…he's evaded Voldiepoo for Lord knows how many years…careful now, Amycus, you're thinking treacherous thoughts and you know the Dark Lord knows Legilimency…he shook his head and tried to focus; Greyback was passed out in a pile of sick, a nice little gift from himself; Travis was snoring in his chair, the guileful stripper nowhere to be found; and he, Amycus, was teetering on the verge of passing out himself. But he couldn't, not with the prize so near…

He pointed his wand at the blurring figure on stage, slurring a bit, "Now just slowly put your hands up where I can see them and…" Wait, what was he doing? Acting like one of those Muggle police things. He shook his head again, although that just seemed to make things even more unclear. He saw something red and bright looming towards him and had a feeling that by the time he woke up, he would either a) be in a jail cell or b) be forced to face the wrath of the Dark Lord. Not very bright prospects, even to a morbid optimist like himself. And, even worse, he would have to deal with his sister, Alecto. Before he could totally comprehend the gruesomeness of this thought, blackness swallowed his eyesight whole and he toppled over, unconscious.

------------

Harry remorselessly watched the Death Eater collapse, the wand in his hand still emanating from the heat of the Stunning Spell he had nonverbally cast. Stunning Spells weren't all that reliable and the effects didn't last very long, Moody had said, but do them like mad if the victim's drunk as hell. And apparently, this Drunk Eater was. He looked towards the bar and was surprised to find that his so-called backup were nowhere to be found; however, there was Luna. Their eyes met. Harry mouthed two words: "Inflict. Chaos."

And suddenly-the lights went out and the music was cut short; tables flew into the air and smashed into bits upon impact with the walls; chairs were knocked over, drinks were spilled, and glass shards twinkled like hazard signals on the floor; screams, yells, and swearing erupted and everyone was fleeing, or, at least, fleeing to the best of their ability, many being under the constraints of alcohol; the chaos and confusion rebounding.

Harry seized his dirty, matted wig from the ground, tapped it clean with his wand, and put it on before all else (he needed it for cover still as the establishment was not secure, plus he liked playing with it and it made him feel less lonely). Then he pulled out a strange, small contraption from his bum bag and assembled it quickly. Triggering it with his wand, the contraption let out a distorting wave, unseen in the darkness but most certainly felt. The contraption, invented by the Weasely Twins specially for the Order, was known as the Dumbledorian Decimator (they were running out of catchy product names), which ensured that any conscious being in the proximity would be out cold for at least an hour. It detonated its charge in a radius of specified length (Hermione had staked out the parameters beforehand so that everyone in the Cat's Paw should be unconscious right about now, save for those who were wearing the Anti-Decimator Charm which in all likelihood would only be Harry, Ron, and Hermione) and its aftereffects included the last 24 hours being a blur, a slight headache, and drowsiness.

With a flick of his wand, Harry returned light to the establishment. He surveyed the scene with immense satisfaction. Knocked/passed out Death Eaters were accounted for, and there were no nerve-impugning strippers in sight. A realization dawned upon him just then. He had Dumbledorian Decimated Luna! "Luna!" he called out her name in panic. The second it left his mouth, he did a mental face palm. Of course she couldn't hear him, she was unconscious…

The second his mind was processing this thought, Luna suddenly popped out from underneath a table. "What was that vibration for?" she asked.

Harry's heart jumped, partly because Luna had scared him with the appearing-out-of-nowhere gimmick and partly because he had momentarily forgotten about Luna and her scantily-clad person. "Luna-how are you still-?" Harry decided it would be best if he answered her question first. "The vibration was for knocking out everyone who isn't already passed out from alcohol," he replied. He showed her the Decimator before slipping it back into his bum bag. "This is what caused it. It's an invention of Fred and George's. Really handy at times like these."

"Why haven't we fainted then?" said Luna, puzzled.

"I have the Anti-Decimator Charm which reflects the effects. So do Ron and Hermione. I don't know about you, though. What do you have on you?" asked Harry curiously.

"Nothing, save for a notepad, quill, and Gurdyroot."

"But…" Harry looked her over quickly. "You don't have any pockets."

"No," Luna agreed, "I don't." Using two fingers, she delicately plucked something resembling an onion out from her bra. She held it out for him to see. "Good thing it's rather small, isn't it?"

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and then nodded his head vigorously.

"I suppose this might have done it," Luna mused, toying with the Gurdyroot. "That's interesting. Did you ever happen to ask Fred and George what they've made the charms out of?"

Harry shook his head, partly to answer 'no', and partly to clear his head. "Where's Ron and Hermione?"

Luna looked up at him and blinked. "Hermione went looking for Ron, I think. I don't know where they are." Just as the words left her mouth, a door crashed open and the couple staggered in, Ron giggling, looking extremely disheveled and covered in streamers and lipstick kisses, with Hermione dragging him by the collar of his robes looking extremely vexed, her hair quite possibly even untidier than Harry's, and that's saying something. "I need your urine," she said to Luna crossly, ignoring Harry's bewildered stare.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but I finished it off," said Luna.

Harry's eyes bulged out of his head, more so than Luna on a normal day, and that's saying something as well. "You-you-what?"

"Shut up!" Hermione barked. Harry flinched. "You know how bloody long it took me to find the room Ron was in? And how bloody hard it was, trying to get those vampire whores off of my husband? I barely made it in time, they were about_ to_ _bite his neck! Just think, I could've had an undead being for a husband!_ But thank you for setting off the Decimator," she added kindly. "I couldn't have fended them all off by myself."

Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and then nodded vigorously. At last. A strategic move to call his own. Luna, however, was too busy jotting down notes in her notepad. "Gradient of frequent moodswings analogous to that of a male Viperlog…" she could be heard muttering.

Hermione helped a very out-of-it Ron into a chair. "So there isn't any more Snorkack urine?" she asked.

Luna looked up. "Maybe. Try the shelves. The boss only ordered it because I wanted it. It was either that, or a pay raise. I expect he didn't fancy the latter, so he took me up on the offer."

Hermione hurried over to the wine cabinets behind counter and started rummaging through the bottles.

"Snorkack urine?" Harry asked Luna, making a face.

"It's good for you," answered Luna affably.

"Haha, Harry, you're such a fruitcake!" giggled Ron, slumped in his seat. He pulled out a Knut from his pocket and waved it around. "C'mon then, let's have it!" he demanded blearily. "I wanna lap dance please. Lap dance with a stripper 'cause I'm a tipper." And he collapsed into a fit of giggles. "Haha, it rhymed Harry! Get it? Get it? Get-"

Harry suddenly remembered something. "The Horcrux!" He took it out of his bum bag, where he had carelessly stuffed it only moments ago. "Hermione, use the Horcrux Detecting Spell on it."

"There's no point," replied Hermione, her back to them.

"Why is that?" asked Luna frostily.

"Luna's theory seems a bit…well, lacking in logic," explained Hermione in an undertone to Harry as she examined a bottle which looked like it could possibly contain brown liquid but in the proper light was a mossy green.

"I heard that," Luna said, frowning. "It couldn't hurt for you to stop acting like a snetchiglob with a moonstone stuck up its arse when it comes to my beliefs for once."

"She has a point, you know," said Harry fairly.

"Fine," huffed Hermione. She stuck her head out of the current cabinet she was looking through, aimed her wand, and then flourished it swiftly . The mask glowed green for a second. Then the glow faded as quickly as it had appeared.

"So it's a Horcrux?" asked Harry eagerly.

"If it glows, it's a Horcrux," said Hermione flatly.

Harry and Luna grinned at each other.

"-but if it glows green, it's not," finished Hermione . "It's supposed to glow red if it were. I told you, Luna…Rowena, a stripteaser? Ridiculous."

"I'm sorry Luna," said Harry sincerely.

Luna shrugged. "My theory still stands. The mask could have been a fake, or maybe Voldemort doesn't know about it."

Hermione concealed her snort of derision and focused at the task at hand, which was sobering up her husband with some so-called imaginary beastie piss. She tried the last cabinet. It was locked. "Why's this one locked?"

"It's a display cabinet, full of antique wineglasses," said Harry dully. "No one's allowed to use them, the bartender said."

Hermione did a face palm. "You're an idiot, Harry."

"Did I miss something?" asked Harry, nonplussed.

"Why won't they let anybody touch these oh-so-special antique wineglasses?" said Hermione patiently. "Doesn't it seem a tad _odd_ that they keep this _one_ cabinet locked when it just happens to be filled with _cups?"_

Ron was asleep in the chair Hermione had dumped him in, a little drool hanging out of the corner of his mouth. His snores did not help Harry any. Harry struggled to connect the dots. "What you're saying is…" he broke into a grin as realization dawned on him. "The Hufflepuff cup's in there!"

"Exactly!" Hermione was beaming as well.

"Well, I don't think that makes very much sense," complained Luna.

"Oh hush Luna," said Hermione as she poked and prodded the keyhole with her wand. "They must have a strong spell on this thing if none of mine are working," she muttered.

Luna picked up a stool and heaved it at the glass-fronted cabinet. The barrier between them and a possible Horcrux shattered into pieces with a crash, followed by a tinkle of glass. More hazard signals. "Muggle magic," said Luna jubilantly.

"Good one, Luna!" Harry hurried forward, and both he and Hermione began sifting through the wineglasses. Meanwhile, Luna went off ambling on her own, bored.

"None of these look like the Hufflepuff cup," said Harry discouragingly after looking at each one thoroughly. Luna spotted something bright and shiny underneath a table and hastened towards it, grudgingly stepping over puddles of vomit and unconscious men.

"Voldemort might've Transfigured it to look like a normal cup," said Hermione, resolute. She did a more complicated wiggle with her wand, but the results were the same-nothing. "I think I've found something over here that belongs to the Death Eaters," called Luna. "I saw something flash red out of it."

"Try it on all of them," suggested Harry, who appeared not to have heard Luna.

"I did," said Hermione glumly. "Tied it in with the parameter spell. If it's in this place and it's not glowing red, it's not a Horcrux."

"So this really was just another wild goose chase," said Harry dispiritedly, sprawled on the counter.

Hermione flopped onto the counter with him. "I suppose so," she said disconsolately. "But I really thought that-"

"Come look!" cried Luna, her face radiant with joy. "I think I've found a Viperlog!"

"Yeah, sure," said Hermione dully.

"No, really! Look!" and Luna thrust a rather large metal box into Hermione's face, which instantly emitted a hiss. Hermione shrieked and scrambled off the counter so fast Harry hadn't had time to blink. "Oh, my goodness!" gasped Hermione. "Don't do that, Luna!" She clutched her chest for a few moments, trying to calm her palpitations. She paused then, realization dawning on her (as it seemed to doing to a lot of people today) and a smile slowly spread across her facial features. "Oh, Luna-I can't believe that you of all the people-you've found a _Horcrux!"_

It was now Harry's turn to get up from his recumbent position on the counter in a speedy blur. _"What?!"_

"It's Voldemort's _snake!"_ exclaimed Hermione in delight. "Luna, didn't you say something about it flashing red?"

"Well, yes-" said Luna, but Harry interrupted. "Wait. What's Nagini doing here anyway?"

"I suppose those Death Eaters were set the task of caring for her, but as is the tendency of all pathetic male life forms, they got sidetracked and winded up somewhere with bosoms and booze," said Hermione dismissively. "Now let's make sure this actually is a Horcrux." She whipped out her wand and performed the spell. The snake flashed red and hissed again, its tongue darting out threateningly.

"Well, that's that," said Hermione happily. "I'll clean up here-Harry, you go tie up the Death Eaters and get them in the trunk-"

"Actually, why don't I do that instead, so Harry can get that stuff off?" Ron volunteered out of nowhere. "He's really starting to bum me out." Harry and Hermione turned towards him, amazed. Ron was now sitting upright in his seat, a complacent expression adorning his face, with Luna standing innocently by him, holding up a half-empty flask. "I forgot about my emergency yeag," she explained. "I keep it on me in case the occasion requires it at hand."

Harry thought about asking Luna where she had room on her person for the flask, but decided against it. Instead he said, "Yeah, Ron, you go and do that and I'll-I'll go the bathroom and de-feminize myself. Thanks." He turned to Accio his robes and things from the champagne room and set off for the bathroom. Except he didn't know where the bathroom was.

"Um, Luna-?"

"Behind the counter, door on the left, take your pick, Harry."

"Thanks." He hurried off, ignoring his friends' laughter. At least they hadn't taken any photos.

As the door clanged shut behind Harry, Ron snapped a photo before his dead-man-walking mate's scantily-clad figure vanished completely behind the shutting door. "Now I've got his front_ and_ his back," he said with glee. Luna turned towards him and Hermione. "I suppose I should go and help Harry-he's bound to make a mess of himself, getting the makeup off-and of course I'll need to change-"

"Do you really need to?" asked Ron quickly. Hermione glared at him and kicked him in the shin. Ron doubled over in pain. "Go ahead, Luna," said Hermione sweetly. "This dunderhead and I'll sort things out here."

Luna nodded and drifted over to the door Harry had gone through, which led to two more doors. She pressed her ear against the one that happened to be the entrance to the men's room and heard grunting. "Bloody-heels-" Smiling, she shook her head and went into the ladies' room to clean off her maquillage and change her clothes, which took a mere ten minutes. She returned to eavesdropping on Harry trying to de-feminize herself which, from what she could tell from the continued grunts, yelps, and noise coming from behind the door, was proving to be a bit of a struggle. She opened the door a crack and slipped in.

The only change as far as Luna could see of Harry was that his robes were on. Apparently everything else would just be another futile attempt on his part, so he had left it well alone. "I'll remove your makeup for you," offered Luna.

Harry turned around, halfway into the process of rubbing off his lipstick with a wad of toilet paper. "Oh. Thanks," he said, turning red.

Luna pointed to the floor. "It's best if you sat down, as you are rather tall."

"Oh, right." Harry obediently sat down, cross-legged. Luna kneeled before him, a cloth and bottle of clear liquid in her hands. "This stuff cleans it off like magic," she told him as she squirted a little into the cloth. "What am I saying? It_ is_ magic." She giggled and gently wiped the gaudy redness from his mouth, as well as the smudge at the top of his lip. Then she slowly worked her way up to his eyes, which seemed to be the most difficult in removing the horrid stuff. Harry watched her as she dabbed and squirted and bit her lip in concentration. Luna looked like her same old self again-she was wearing flamboyant orange robes and her makeup was gone-and yet, she didn't. She was, if possible, even prettier than she had been in her stripper getup. It seemed that the only thing that changed about Luna was that she had gotten older.

"Luna." She was still working on his eyes.

"Mmm?"

"Why do you put that stuff on?" Harry questioned.

"Oh, I don't really like it, you know," Luna confided as she scrubbed off the eyeshadow as gently as possible, "but the other girls said my eyes would ward off the men because they're as large as Puffskeins and twice as creepy, according to Jonquilla, so Lola used to put on my face for me until I learned to do it myself. Of course it really is a small price to pay for finding a Horcrux, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yeah," said Harry, still watching her bite her lip and feeling a little light-headed.

"So where are we going next?" asked Luna casually, as she started on the foundation caking his face.

Harry shook his head. "There's no 'we' about it, Luna. You're going to headquarters with us to rest up a bit and stuff, but after that you'll be going home, where you belong."

"Neville's with you."

"Neville's of age."

"Dad wouldn't mind."

"That's beside the point."

"I found the Horcrux here; that proves I'm an asset to the mission."

Harry sighed and said no more; it was a moot point, really, and he was in no mood. Luna leaned a little closer, so that he saw the contours, the features of her face more clearly. "There's a bit of lipstick on the bottom of your lip still."

"Oh?" Harry instinctively raised his hand up to rub it off, but Luna stopped him. "Oh, no, let me do it, Harry." Eyes twinkling mischievously, she leaned forward still and their lips met, prompting Luna to kiss him soundly on the mouth.

It was strange, because Harry's eyes were open, which wasn't his M.O. when it came to snogging, but Luna's eyes were open too. They looked at each other, another level of understanding between them they had not known was there deepening further. There was a spark, and Harry tasted it in her. With Cho, he had discovered she had an ability to twist his insides into uncomfortable positions. With Ginny, a sort of metaphorical monster had nested in his stomach, to which he had responded robotically to. With Luna, it had nothing to do with his torso but his mind, which was reeling again.

The kiss sizzled down to a slow but sure stop. They slowly detached themselves from each other (for it had felt like they had been merged together as a single being, and not just physically) and Harry stared at Luna, who returned the favor although much more serenely. Harry of course was extremely conflicted. He should have told her no, this wouldn't work, because Voldemort would covet her for manipulation of him and she would get hurt, and this was wrong, he shouldn't be with anybody, he was meant to be alone as per angst-ridden hero rules; he should have argued her insistence at tagging along, insisting it was much too dangerous; he should have said then, "So…thanks for suctioning off that possibly nonexistent bit of lipstick that might've just been a ploy for me, now let's not keep Ron and Hermione waiting"; but it was his hesitation and partial unwillingness that kept him from blurting out any of these choices. Instead, Harry went for the quip: he grimaced and gestured at his three quarters-removed makeup and the stilettos he hadn't gotten around to unlacing and discarding in contempt. "You do know you're snogging with a girl?" he said wryly, very much realizing how comical and disturbing their kiss might have seemed in third person view.

"Oh no," said Luna very seriously, yanking off Harry's wig and leaning forward to kiss him again, "I'm snogging Harry Potter the Drag Queen."


	7. Alternative Ending

_For Binkz and those who hated the original ending_

---

Everyone looked at Harry in drag in shock and horror. And mayhap just a tad amusement. But then! There was a rumble! Spontaneous boulders of swift plunging death rained down on their heads! Everyone was SQUASHED!!! (yes, even the strippers and our angsty ubergeeky hero.) BLOOD WAS EEEEEVERYWHERE :O

_**Fin.**_


End file.
